Of Outrunning Ghosts
by Kandakicksass
Summary: Birthday request for doctorfetish. Two years after they supposedly killed Jerry, Peter gets hurt on set and wakes up in the hospital with minor injuries - but the broken arm is the least of his troubles when he realizes who his doctor is. As it turns out, death isn't always quite so permanent. Non-con, heavy slash. Now with a birthday sequel for Izzy the Whimsical!
1. Of Outrunning Ghosts

**All right, so this one is for the lovely _doctorfetish_ who – along with some serious flattery – requested a Jerry/Peter for her birthday! Hope ya like it, honey, and I'm sorry it's late!**

Peter knows without opening his eyes where he is. The smell of antiseptic and an overwhelming _cleanliness _is a dead give away. The blanket wrapped around him is rough cotton and the pillow under his head doesn't smell like _him_. He groans to express his displeasure, and rolls onto his side, yelping when he lands on his arm – which is starting to feel less like an arm and more like a concentration of every injury he's ever taken because _bloody hell that hurts_.

"I hate hospitals," he moans to himself, throwing what he assumes is his good arm over his face. He hears a giggle and moves his arm enough to show his face. He examines the girl suspiciously. "Who're you?"

She stifles another giggle and comes to his bedside, holding a clipboard. "I'm Nurse Wilson," she tells him. Her voice is a little high, but not unpleasant. "The doctor is out for the rest of the day and will check on you tonight. We want you to stay over night, just to make sure – you were injured while filming and hit your head pretty hard."

"And broke my arm, I gather," he grunts, struggling to sit up. "It hurts like hell."

She chuckles and nods. "That, too," she agrees, helping him into a sitting position. "It's a little bit after noon – would you like some lunch? You probably didn't eat before rehearsal; your set manager said you'd been at it for a couple hours."

Peter tries to remember the last full meal he's eaten, and can't. Even with Charlie popping in every other day or so – usually accompanied by Amy – he never thinks much about it. He's a busy man, after all. He can certainly feel the emptiness in his stomach and shrugs half-heartedly. "Why not. Could use a drink, to be honest…"

Nurse Wilson – her name tag appears to read "Becca" – just rolls her eyes. "I feel like you already know that one's going to be a no." Sighing dramatically, Peter shrugs again, making the girl laugh. She can't be older than twenty-five, he thinks, giving her a charming grin.

"Fine. Milk?"

Becca chuckles. "I think milk is doable, Mr. Vincent."

He makes a face. "Peter, please. Mr. Vincent makes me think of – well, not my father, because Vincent is a stage name – but it makes me feel older than I am. And I'm already old enough." Becca looks like she's trying not to laugh, but Peter doesn't take it personally. "Well, come on – I'm starving!"

"I'll be back then, Peter," she says, grinning at him. "Before I go, though, do you need something for the pain? You seem pleasant enough, so it can't be too bad."

"Nah," Peter replies, shrugging, then winces on principal when it jostles his arm. "I'm fine. Just starving – speaking of, chop chop!"

"Aye, aye, captain," she laughs, slipping out with the dull thud of sneakers on tile.

Peter lets the smile slip from his face, sighing. He really does hate hospitals, he thinks grumpily as he scratches at the IV imbedded in his arm. He debates pulling it out; he doesn't really need it, but he's sure to be yelled at if he removes it and he definitely prefers being the one who does the yelling. He pouts at the needle.

Things have calmed down a lot in the past two years. When he thinks about it, he can scarcely believe it had been that long since he'd met Charley Brewster and Amy Peterson – they're such a huge part of his life now that he can barely remember what his life had been like before them. Well, that might be an understatement; he definitely _can _remember; the question is whether he wants to. His life before the two teenagers – barely adults – had been filled with survivor's guilt and fear.

He lies back, thinking idly. The fact that he's sitting here in a hospital, from an accident on set, is surreal – he'd always thought he'd end up in a hospital, but he'd figured it would be for much more sinister reasons. Two years ago, he'd thought he'd end up dead. That he can be lying here now, vulnerable yet perfectly safe, is unthinkable and somehow wondrous.

He finds himself nodding off, only to wake again when the nurse comes back, clucking her tongue and carrying a tray with a pudding cup and what vaguely resembles spaghetti on it. He eyes it in distaste, but lets her set it up in front of him. "About what time is it?" he asks, reaching for the fork.

She raises an eyebrow and checks her watch. "About six. Looks a bit earlier; the sun still hasn't gone down. Isn't daylight savings time fun?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "I'm going to go since you seem to be doing all right on your own. The remote to that TV-" She points, as if he can't see it, suspended from the ceiling. "- is on the desk. Feel free to watch whatever; I can guarantee that you'll find nothing good."

He grimaces at the thought of the horrible soap operas he's likely to find if he turns the thing on. "Can't you just get me my phone so I can get on the internet, text back all the friends that are surely blowing up my cell –" To be honest, it would probably be Charley, Amy, or his new assistant, Rachel (chosen over Gabi, Jennifer, and a long list of applicants who, in some way, reminded him far too much of Ginger. If there's one thing he will never be able to get over, it'll be her), but he doesn't mind.

"All right, all right," she answers, moving over to the small locker. She opens it, reaching in and rummaging around in what are probably his pants to pull out his phone.

She turns around with an open mouth, presumably to tell him something, but he's already grabbing the device from her hands greedily, eyes locked on the small screen. He has it unlocked in seconds. "Peter-"

Peter, of course, is already logging into his email, completely tuning her out, and she rolls her eyes and leaves him to it. He has an email from his director – mostly for show, considering Peter's pretty adamant about running things himself – telling him he's taking the week off and then they can meet about picking rehearsals and shows back up, because it's going to be difficult with his arm broken like it is. He has another four that are nothing but spam, and deletes them.

There's no avoiding it – he has to check his messages at some point, even if there's only three. Two from Charley, he sees, and one from Rachel, which seems to be in all capitals freaking out about something pre-show and he figures it was from before the accident. The two from Charley are both along the lines of 'hey I heard you got your ass kicked by a prop on set rumor or not?', though the second one comes across as far more worried than the first. It's from about an hour ago and he sighs, knowing that the kid will chew him out big time the minute he's out of the hospital.

He manages to kill an hour or two on his phone, grumbling under his breath about stupid doctors and their making him stay overnight, like he's five years old and can't take care of himself.

"Peter –" Becca again, grinning. "The doc should be here in a few minutes. Just wanted to give you a heads up." Her smile becomes a little dreamy. "He's quite attractive, too – in case you care."

He folds his arms, frowning in disapproval, but truthfully, he does sort of care. He won't pretend he's one hundred percent straight, but he's not going to broadcast it, either. "Why would that be something I'm interested in?" He pauses. "But if I did care, hypothetically… how attractive are we talking, exactly?"

She looks a little triumphant. "Hypothetically? Incredibly. An angel in scrubs. He started working nights here a couple months ago, and everyone loves him - understandably. You're lucky you got in when you did, really; he was just leaving when you came in."

"And he decided to take on a new patient right quick? Must be my dashing good looks," Peter says, mostly joking.

Becca seems to agree. "Most likely. I'm going to get out of here before I get chewed out for neglecting the other patients, but trust me, you won't be disappointed." Her grin is wolfish. "Dr. Dandridge lives up to the hype." She ducks out before Peter can react.

For a moment, Peter thinks that maybe his mouth has stopped working. His body is frozen, muscles tense. He isn't sure what he'd do even if he did have control of his limbs.

She can't be talking about him, he tries to convince himself, but she had said - how many people could be living around here named 'Dandridge' anyway? He isn't sure how to react, how to feel, how to breathe, but he doesn't have time to contemplate it before the doorway is filled again, this time with a familiar smirk and broad shoulders. Jerry's jawline is as gorgeous and unforgiving as ever, and not for the first time, Peter wishes he didn't find him as attractive as he did.

As it turns out, Jerry's looks don't make him any less terrifying, he thinks as the vampire steps into the room, claws out, subtly hanging at his side in an imitation of casualty. The dark blue fabric of his scrubs cling to his legs, to his torso, to his arms. All muscular and capable of far more than Peter's very human body is.

"No." His voice is weak. He clears his throat. "No. I'm hallucinating."

Jerry laughs, and the sound is somehow both mocking and genuinely amused. "You were always a funny kid, guy."

"Don't call me that," he grits out, cheeks flushing, because that was what he called Charley – that was what he called Charley when he was _flirting _with him, his condescending little nickname. Peter won't stand for it. If he's going to die – which is starting to seem likely, and damn it, hadn't they passed the 'oh shit, I could die any minute now' time of their lives two years ago? – it will be with some sliver of dignity. "I have a name and you bloody well know it." He pauses, then adds grudgingly, "Very well, actually."

"Come on, guy," Jerry teases, but his eyes glint in a way that's anything but friendly. It's _predatory_. "Don't be bitter. You should be flattered I never forgot you. You might even be my favorite." He moves into the room and Peter stiffens automatically. "Look at you. A broken toy. You know, I was surprised to see you when they brought you in. I mean, I picked up this gig because I always figured with your self-destructive behavior would land you in the hospital often enough… still. You looked so pretty, lying there unconscious, arm snapped like a twig."

"Fuck off," he manages, but the fear clawing at his throat makes it difficult to speak. It seems he'll never get over that instinctual terror at the thought of this monster. He's almost disappointed in himself.

"I could," he responds, grinning just as wolfishly as Becca had but in spite of the irony, it's a hell of a lot more terrifying. "Would you like that… Peter?"

"No," Peter says, because that's the only thing he can say for a moment before his brain kicks in and he's paling and backing up in the bed, which is possibly one of the stupidest things he's ever done because he's just boxing himself in. Jerry stalks forward. Literally _stalks_, as if he isn't creepy enough. Peter thinks he can very possibly die from air deprivation.

"Don't you want it?" Jerry's voice is a low purr, dangerous and threatening. "I know you've thought about it, probably ever since I told you how pretty you were as a boy. Do you remember that?"

Peter does remember that. He remembers the words, clear as day, a rumble in his ear, aroused alpha male preying on a thirteen year old boy too scared to move as a hand slowly trails one long-nailed finger up his arm.

Then a nail – a real one – pulls him out of his memory and he flinches away. "No. No, I do not want it and you know it and you should stop now or I'll scream and some nurses will run in or something to that affect." He doesn't care that he's babbling or shivering.

Jerry's smirk grows more pronounced in the low lights of his hospital room, dimmed automatically as it grows closer to lights out. "Do you really think they would worry once they saw I was here with you? You can't exactly claim molestation from a vampire you thought you killed, can you?"

Somehow, hearing the words makes it worse, a confirmation of what's going to happen, and Peter's heart jumps.

"You're insane," Peter chokes, and well, Jerry doesn't deny it. He just smirks even more, if it's possible, with his eyes flashing and his stance even more threatening, towering over Peter who's still slim and lightly muscled and nowhere near a match for this creature. "No, you really are! Were you always a complete nutter or did that happen over centuries of mindless –"

"Peter. Shut up."

Then of course there's a vampire in his hospital bed and he can't fucking _breathe_, a mouth laving lightly at his neck and oh _god _this is really happening. He's paralyzed, he's terrified, he's – _Jesus those are teeth no abort no_ – but he can't do anything about it. He wishes he could but his body is frozen and his head is swimming.

"Stop," he manages to whisper, because his struggling limbs are being held down by the heavy weight of a man – monster, not man – much broader than him and much more muscular. He wonders, somewhere in the back of his stunned mind, if Jerry works out or if the six-pack is just a perk of being a blood-sucking nightmare.

"Nice try," Jerry chuckles against the column of his throat, nuzzling his nose into the hollow between his jaw and ear. "You're adorable when you're in denial, you know. The panic just coming off of you in waves… it's delicious."

"I'm sure it is." Peter's head is swimming and his body has gone limp. He bares his throat instinctually, praying that he could pull that submissive appeal, that maybe Jerry wouldn't tear him apart. He could only hope.

"Peter," Jerry clucks, pulling back for Peter to see his deeply amused expression. He wishes he wasn't giving the vampire quite so much pleasure. "Are you afraid of me, Peter?"

"Why ask questions you know the bloody answer to?" he grumbles and feels a hum go through Jerry's body; silent laughter.

"Or maybe," he continues, like Peter never spoke. "Maybe you're just afraid of what I can do to you." His hand is sliding from the back of Peter's neck, down his chest. His fingers dance lightly over his hospital gown – again, completely unnecessary, and he thinks he's maybe in shock if that's all his brain can come up with.

"No," Peter says, stronger than before, and he brings a hand up to press against Jerry's chest. "No! No, you fucking lunatic! You're immortal, _clearly_, incredibly strong – completely, barking mad – surely you have better things to do than terrorize show hosts! Honestly, I really thought Amy was more your type –" And _shit_, he had to bring up Amy, what if he goes after her? God, he is such a fucking _moron_ sometimes. "You should be dead," he continues, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "We killed you."

Jerry grins at him and his hand pushes the hospital gown up, revealing a pair of tight black briefs. Peter's caught between horror and relief. "Should have done a better job of it, Peter," Jerry rumbled. "Really. Did you think it would be easy as all that?" Peter almost wants to scoff – _easy? _He called that _easy?_ - but a large hand with long fingers pulls on the elastic of his briefs, tugging them down to reveal his crotch, and the words just aren't coming. Peter wishes he has an excuse for how he's not entirely soft, but he doesn't, and he doesn't have a rebuttal for Jerry's grin this time. "Look at that. Just… lovely. Don't you think?" His face burns with disgust for himself, for the situation.

"Friction," Peter grunts after a long pause, like he needs the excuse. It won't matter in the end, will it? The thought reminds him of a couple things – _vampire rape fuck no _– and he glares, pushing on Jerry's chest again, kicking weakly in an attempt to move out of his hold. The shock is wearing off and the panic is settling in again, now that he's accepting that no, he's not hallucinating or having a really messed up nightmare. His chest has been tight this whole time but now it's practically suffocating, and Peter's watching as the different stages of horror settle across his face.

Then Jerry leans in, kissing him, and he knows that biting his tongue off would just be a bad situation because _vampire blood_ and no thank you, he is not up for being Jerry's bitch willingly – or unwillingly, his mind adds, but he doesn't have a choice there. So he doesn't fight, just lays there, still and increasingly cold. His heart is a mad flutter, beating too hard and too fast and there's a hand around his cock that's pulling him to full hardness. The shame is crippling, shame and something akin to disgust, toward himself and the situation.

He barely reacts when Jerry pulls away, numb and complacent. "Up, pet." He sits up, his entire body protesting. "On your knees."

Peter freezes at his directness. He wasn't sure if his frankness made things worse or better. Either way, his eyes flit to the door and his body leans to the side, as if to lurch off the bed. Jerry clucks reproachfully and moves Peter himself before he can even think about actually moving toward the exit. And really, Peter's never been fond of being on his knees and he's not fond of it now, but he honestly considers this to be the equivalent of being raped in an alley and _oh wait_. That's pretty much exactly what this is. He's tangled in the wire of his IV and tries to untangle it from around him, but he's unsuccessful and gives up when he hears Jerry chuckle.

He hates himself even more for whimpering when there's a rush of air against his back for a mere second before the heat of Jerry's body – too hot, why is he so fucking hot? – has returned and he can see, having turned his head to look at Jerry with wide, terrified eyes, that Jerry is grinning. There's a bottle of lubricant in his hand.

Peter closes his eyes. He doesn't want to see it – or feel it, for that matter, as he hears the pop of the cap. He pretends that he's blind, that he can't feel, pretends that he's somewhere else entirely as Jerry rips his briefs off entirely.

A shiver runs through his body, violent and overwhelming, when two lubed fingers trace his rim. They don't enter him right away, though – instead, Jerry's hand moves up only to rip his IV from his arm, causing him to cry out in pain. He's barely managed to calm himself down enough to silence himself when a finger is being pushed into his body, brutal in the way that few things truly are. This is an _invasion _of his own body and it's merciless.

He rocks forward slightly under the force of the digit impaling him, wincing when one becomes two. He's not anywhere near ready for the second one and maybe part of the pain comes from how tense he is, but he knows he should be grateful he's getting preparation at all. He's not a complete stranger to this and he knows how painful it can be. He's thankful, really, underneath the feeling in his stomach like he wants to throw up.

The third comes before he's ready for it, too, but Jerry just smirks when he whines softly and crooks his fingers just so to make the pain ebb slightly into pleasure, make Peter's back bow. It's an uncomfortable thought, that the vampire knows exactly what he's doing, and makes him wonder if he'd been planning this or if he'd done it before. Either thought is equally sickening and he puts it out of his mind as well as he can even with his cock dripping onto the rough hospital linen.

"You _like _this," Jerry purrs, and he sounds far too pleased by that fact. Peter shakes his head, wincing when a tear rolls down his cheek. He tries to ignore the tongue that comes down to lick it up. "Your misery is delicious, you know that?"

He swallows hard. "Rot in hell," he chokes hoarsely, and he watches as Jerry's eyes flash.

"Feisty." Jerry's voice is deceptively casual, so much so that Peter doesn't see it coming when the fingers are ripped from his body with a loud squelching noise that makes him want to puke. When the blunt head of the vampire's cock – his stomach churns at the thought – presses against his entrance, shoving inside of him in one thrust… well, he didn't see that one coming at all and he would scream in pain if it weren't for the large, calloused hand clapped over his mouth.

Peter doesn't expect Jerry to give him any time to adjust, but he's relieved when Jerry leans down to whisper in his ear before moving. "You look good on all fours, pet. I wish you could see yourself, my little bitch." He doesn't have to see Jerry's face to know there was a cruel smirk twisting his lips upward. "God, I really wish you could." He pulls out slightly and makes a shallow thrust that has Peter's thighs quivering. His ears are burning from the shame. "You feel so damned good, too." His arm is complaining from holding up all his weight; he wasn't going to try using the broken one, and gives the cast a desperate look, as if it could do something about his situation.

He sounds so fucking smug, Peter thinks, trying not to whimper when Jerry thrusts deeper, his cock brushing over Peter's prostate. His body is too hot and too cold at once and his limbs are weak, barely holding him up. It's Jerry's hands on his hips that are keeping him upright, tightening with every roll of his hips.

For rape, Jerry is being ridiculously gentle about it, all things considered, and Peter knows why. He hates Jerry for it, for the way he was so careful about making Peter want it, too. Jerry wanted him to feel the pleasure from it.

His voice comes faster now, little cries, _"ah, ah, ah!" _with every press of thick cock into his body. For a moment, he can close his eyes and pretend that it isn't his parent's murderer fucking him, a monster who refuses to just die and leave him alone. The monster from his nightmares, from every bad dream he's had since he was thirteen.

Then Jerry speaks again, his voice low and husky, and one of the hands on his hip moves to Peter's cock, stroking him lightly. "You really are my bitch, aren't you, Peter? Always have been. All these years, you were just waiting for me to come back, even if you didn't know it. I kept close tabs on you."

Peter's brown eyes are wide and there's a tightening in his chest threatening to obliterate his heart, already beating out of time.

Jerry's hips keep a steady rhythm, even as he jerks Peter's cock and murmurs into his ear. "You've been such a _wreck _without me, Peter, and did you notice – things started looking up after you met me again. What a coincidence. It's okay, though. I'll keep you with me from now on. Would you like that? Being my little –" He punctuates his next word with a sharp roll of his hips, pressing his cock into Peter's body so deep he's sure he'll feel it for days. "-_bitch_."

Peter will hate himself for a very long time for the way his body jerks, coming in hot spurts against the rough sheets, collapsing to press his face against the pillow as Jerry finishes with him.

It doesn't take long for Jerry to come, filling his ass. "There," Jerry murmurs, voice low. "Good and marked." There's a smirk, a softer one, curving his lips.

Peter doesn't stick around to see it; he's off the bed in a second, knocking off Jerry's hand from where it lay on his wrist. He's already running for it, hand snagging his clothes from the small locker before he's out the door.

His feet are bare and the tile of the hospital floor is cold, but he barely notices as he runs as fast as he can, pushing aside nurses and a doctor as he trips down the hall toward the elevator.

"Peter, what are you -!" he hears Becca exclaim, but doesn't look back at her, just presses the button to the elevator frantically. He spares a glance over his shoulder, freezing when he sees Jerry standing in the middle of the hall with an eyebrow cocked upward at him. That damned smirk hadn't gone away and Peter's heart jumps to his throat. He abandons the elevator, turning to the stairs a few feet away. He's halfway down them before he can think about it.

"Oh, Peter…"

He looks up; Jerry's grinning down at him, mouth full of sharp teeth. He makes a strangled sound and runs downstairs faster, ignoring the calls from concerned-sounding hospital staff, running toward the door without another glance.

It's not until he's standing outside in the cold, jerking on his jeans and ripping off the hospital gown to put his shirt on that he realizes what just happened, acknowledges the pain shooting up his spine with every step. He throws the gown to the ground and flags down a cab with another anxious glance back at the hospital doors. They stay empty, until he's safely in the car.

The last thing he sees is Jerry's raised eyebrow from the doorway of the hospital as the cabbie drives away and he knows that it won't be the last he sees of the vampire. Peter's suddenly cold again, and curls in the back seat of the cab with a mumble of his address toward the driver. He cradles his broken arm against his chest, starting at the cast with little comprehension of what had just happened.

_It's starting to rain outside_, he thinks numbly when he hears the pitter-patter on the roof of the car. Then, _I'd really some sun tomorrow. _

**So, erm… yay, birthday porn! Happy birthday, hun!**

**Kandakicksass**


	2. Request Sequel

**Birthday sequel for Izzy the Whimsical, presented without comment. **

It's been four weeks, and nothing is right.

Peter feels a little washed-out. He's lying on the floor with a bottle in his fist, curled up in a nest of pillows and a huge comforter. The walls of the panic room are a mind-numbing white, stained here and there with blood or alcohol. He watches the cameras with unfocused eyes. He's a fucking mess and he knows it, but the paranoia won't leave him be.

He still has the marks from Jerry's claws, bruises from the tight grip he had on Peter's thigh. They're faint now and if they'd been made by a human they would have gone at least a week or two before. As it is, he's just pleased they don't hurt any longer.

He rolls onto his back, his eyes flickering to the screen in the top, right-hand corner. Charley. He flexes the fingers still wrapped around the bottle and it slips from his grasp. He thinks vaguely that it's a good thing the cork was in. The bottle itself's been more like a comfort object, unopened. He has been drinking quite a bit lately, but this bottle – well, Midori tastes like shite, really. He can't stomach the stuff anymore, but he still keeps the damn bottle.

"Peter," he hears from the speaker. It sounds whiny to his ears. "Let me in."

He thinks about it. "No," he answers at last, but he's not connected to the comm at the moment and Charley can't hear him. He doesn't really care.

"Peter!" Charley snaps. "I know you're in there."

"No, I'm not," he groans, rolling over onto his stomach. Well, Charley can't be the only whiney one.

"I hate you sometimes, man, I really do," Charley gripes, pulling a key out of his pocket. Peter eyes it. Now, when did he give the brat _that_? He watches, his attention only half kept, as Charley makes his way through his home, grimacing at the mess. He hasn't had anyone clean properly in a month and he's sure as hell not going to do it himself. Maybe Charley will do it before he leaves.

He waits to move until Charley is banging on the door to the panic room.

"Your place smells like _shit_, bro, what the hell have you been doing? Get out of there. You're fucking nuts."

Peter glares at the bottle of Midori still on the ground, having rolled away.

"I'm not impressed with the hermit act," Charley yells at him. "I don't know how to override the damn room but I'll learn, you crazy. Or Amy will. One of the two."

"Leave me alone," he yells back, wrinkling his nose when his throat aches.

"Peter," Charley groans. "Seriously, whatever's wrong, you can talk to me about it, man. I'm afraid you're gonna – I don't know, freak yourself out to death."

The door slides open and Charley gapes at him. "You look like shit, man."

"Quit calling me that," he grumbles, reaching down to scratch at his stomach idly. "Speak like an intelligent human being for once."

His friend's lip twitches. "Speak for yourself." He holds a hand out, still grinning, and pulls Peter groaning and resisting to his feet. Peter examines him when he's upright. Charley looks a damn sight better than he does, but then – why wouldn't he? He doesn't _know_ the things that Peter knows.

Charley looks concerned.

Peter sniffs to himself at the thought, frowning deeply as he stumbles to the bar to pour himself a glass of something alcoholic, to drink this time. He gives the bottle a glance – absinth – and downs his glass. "What do you want, Charley? You never said you were comin' over." He's slurring, slightly, but he's audible.

"That would be because the past three times we've made plans, you've cancelled. I mean, look at you! You locked yourself in the panic room. _Again_. Nothing good happens when you lock yourself in the panic room." Charley makes an exasperated sound, displeased. "Amy's been worried. Something's wrong."

Peter ignores the unasked question. "What, just Amy? Well. I see how it is." Charley rolls his eyes, unamused. "Nothing's wrong, Charley-boy, why do you say so? Is it the drink? Can't a man get pissed if he wants to?."

"Men, yes," Charley agrees, then narrows his eyes. "Not recovering alcoholics, Peter. I'm not stupid; something's wrong. Just tell me what it is."

Peter glares at him, affronted. "I am not a _recovering alcoholic_. I'm just an alcoholic."

If Charley had been unamused before, his expression is positively flat now. "Peter, would you just tell me what's up already? I've got a date with Amy in an hour and no time for your bullshit." His arms are crossed and Peter frowns, noticing the bulge of Charley's muscles as he flexes unintentionally. He feels kind of upset that they're bigger than his, but then, he'd always been on the scrawnier side. Impressive musculature has never been something he possesses.

"God, _mum_, nothing's fucking wrong, okay? If you've got a date, go! Because you're driving me mad whining on about my drinking and cancelling our man-dates or whatever. I'm fine! Clearly!" He gestures down at himself – half-naked but clean, covered by pajama pants and a sheer indigo robe.

"Yes, _clearly_," Charley imitates, but he bites his lip and finally seems to back down a bit. "Just… tell me if something's going on, okay? You have my number; text me or something."

Peter nods, waving him away, and Charley sighs but goes in for a one armed hug. "Jesus, Charley, be more of a girl."

"Don't be a misogynist."

"Hang out with Amy less," Peter retorted, aghast. "Your IQ isn't high enough to use that word!"

"I'm pretty sure you've killed yours with alcohol," Charley groused, but when Peter gave him a crooked grin, he rolled his eyes and returned it. "Come on, loser. Why don't you come with us tonight? It's not a formal date night; Amy just wanted to see the newest Marvel movie and she'll be happy to see you out and aboutish."

"Ah," Peter sighed. "Almost a coherent sentence, and then you ended it with_ ish_. Really, kid." Charley squeezed his shoulder a bit too hard and he winced. "All right, fine, yeah, movie. Whatever."

Charley grinned brightly. "All right then, come on. Do yourself a favor and put on some real pants?"

"Who needs real pants?" he complained. "Honestly." He put them on anyway, grabbing a pair of jeans from the back of his desk chair. He found a t-shirt underneath them and put it on, mentally wincing at the idea of Charley walking in on him in his boxers, like a child, but rolls his eyes at his own almost-embarrassment and follows Charley out without argument.

* * *

Charley grins at him where he sits squished between him and his girlfriend. It's the most shit-eating expression he's ever seen and Peter raises an eyebrow at him.

"Come on," he whispers, looking chagrined when Amy glares at him from Peter's other side. "You're enjoying yourself," he continues at a lowered volume.

He rolls his eyes. "Yes, how could I not?" But Charley just grins and they both know he's enjoying himself in spite of not giving a damn about the movie he paid good money to see. Amy had looked so pleased to see him and Charley so proud of himself – like the little brat had single-handedly tamed a wild beast. These are his friends, however sad it is that his that his friends are teenagers, and he's not going to let himself ruin the time he spends with them.

"I'm going to the bathroom," he murmured just loud enough for his companions to hear. "Be back in a tick." Charley stood, making room for him to pass, and Amy patted his arm, giving him a grin.

His heavy boots make his steps louder, attracting the glares of at least three moviegoers. He chuckles as he stepped out into the hall.

The bathroom is empty and quiet, the only sound the buzzing of the air conditioner. He pisses quickly, making a face at the scent of artificial citrus and cleaning agents. God, how he hates that nauseating scent. He hates public places nowadays (not that he was particularly fond of them in the first place) but it's even worse when they smell like cleaning agents.

He glares at himself in the mirror. "Ninny," he taunts, but predictably, his reflection doesn't reply.

"Talk to yourself isn't usually a good sign, guy."

He closes his mouth with an audible click. "My name is _Peter_," he snaps, turning around to face his tormenter, forever his nightmare. "Why can't you get that through your thick skull?"

Jerry is leaning casually against the wall, smirking at him. Peter's muscles are taut. "My apologies," he purrs. "Aren't you a bit waspish today? There's no need to be rude."

"Call me bitter," Peter hisses. "Honestly, you act like I'm mad – I'm not just going to bow to your every whim, you psychopathic vampire _psycho_!"

Jerry raises an eyebrow and his smirk is positively wicked. "Excusing your obvious panic –" That one hurt, thank you for pointing it out. "- I think you're forgetting something." He saunters forward, and Peter – forgetting his fighting spirit for just a moment; he'd beat himself up for it later – presses himself into the counter. " You did bow to my whims, remember that? I fucked you into your hospital bed, little one."

"Just because I let you fuck me once doesn't mean I'll let you do it again," he snaps and Jerry just chuckles. "I've had four months to work myself up to this – I killed you once; I could do it again."

"Four months of what?" Jerry laughs. "Drinking yourself into a stupor? Dreaming about me every night? Come on, Peter, don't think I'm fooled. I know you better than you know yourself."

Caught out, Peter flushes. Jerry comes closer, done pretending the few feet between them was anything more than a formality Jerry was allowing him. His body is as warm as ever, all muscles and smooth skin. What Peter can see of him is virtually unmarked, vampire healing obviously having done its job. Jerry is a work of art, a monstrous version of Michelangelo's David. Peter hates him.

"Why me?" he asks finally, resting his hands lightly on Jerry's biceps, as if to push him away. He wishes he would be able to if he were to try.

His eyes are dark, shifting from brown to red and back again. "Mmm." It's not an answer and Peter waits – almost patiently – for one. "Maybe it's this," Jerry hums after a long moment, his nail scraping down Peter's neck, and he shivers. He's unsure of whether it's fear or want that shoots down his spine. From the look on Jerry's face, he knows it, and Peter knows that's his answer.

Peter doesn't bother fighting when Jerry presses their lips together, an illusion of gentleness. His kisses, at first, are soft and lingering. He kisses back; there's no point in resisting.

Jerry slides his hands up to Peter's hips and lifts him onto the counter, lips moving from his own to his neck, mouthing at the spot where his pulse is jumping madly. "The door," he whispers. "What if someone –"

"Locked," Jerry rumbles against his throat. He sucks a bruise into the skin there, his tongue flickering over the dark spot. Peter knows what's going to happen before Jerry's mouth opens wide and barely has time to let out a cry before teeth puncture the warm expanse of his throat.

He didn't know what he thought being bled would feel like, he muses as he struggles for barely a minute before his fight bleeds out as well. He slumps against Jerry weakly, his head lolling to the side to give the vampire easier access. "You taste so sweet," Jerry murmurs into his ear when he manages to tear himself away, leaving a smear of blood up Peter's jaw. "I always knew you would, you know."

Peter's sure he did. It doesn't matter anymore.

He lets Jerry strip him like a doll – methodically, almost as if he cared, and sits him on the floor. His touches _are_ gentle and his expression is almost fond. It makes it that much more of a shock when Jerry presses his palm to Peter's shin and just for a moment, juts it downward. The _crack _is muffled by the high sound Peter makes at the pain, left dizzy from it on top of the blood loss. Jerry's quick with the other leg and Peter manages not to scream; he just sobs harshly, his whole body awash with pain, his head beginning to throb.

He lays there naked, vulnerable and trapped. He's not going anywhere unless Jerry wills it and he knows it. Jerry grips his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. "It's for your own good, Peter," he croons. "By the time you heal you'll know better than to fight me anymore, better than to try and escape."

"I wasn't fighting," he says, his voice sounding _young_, naïve. He sounds like a child again. "Why –"

Jerry strokes his hair as he pulls a bottle of lube from the pocket of his dark jeans, setting it on the ground before standing to strip himself. "I'm taking precautions. You're a smart one, I'll give you that – I didn't trust you not to try anything." He kneels, naked from the waist up, palming the bulge in his jeans. "It's all right. Once you heal, you'll have learned. Isn't that right?"

Peter's not sure what he means, and tells him so. Jerry looks almost amused, blood painting his mouth and chin. He looks every inch the predator he is, and Peter hates him so viciously he almost doesn't realize he's swung a fist up until Jerry's caught it and is squeezing just enough to make him cry out again.

"I told you," Jerry sighs. "I knew you'd try something, didn't I? You _will_ learn, Peter. Once you do, you'll thank me for being so nice about this. I haven't permanently clipped your wings – not yet. I will if I have to." He makes sure Peter meets his eyes for his next statement. "You belong to me, Peter. I'm just making sure you're forced to learn that before you make me do something drastic. I don't like broken toys, Peter." It's a clear warning of what will happen if Peter drives him far enough.

Peter knows there are tears running down his face and feels almost ashamed of it. He hasn't cried openly in front of someone since he was a teenager. "You're insane," he whispers, and Jerry smirks.

Jerry moves to fast for him to follow – a blur of dark fabric hitting the wall, pale skin coming close, and suddenly his useless legs are propped against Jerry's thighs and there's two fingers buried in his body, burning him from the inside out. Long, thick fingers coated generously in lube because Jerry _liked _it when Peter got something from it no matter what he wanted.

"You'll learn, Peter," Jerry tells him, very matter-of-fact, and the upward twist of his lips, the fucking _smirk_, tells him that Jerry's enjoying breaking him. "And if you're smart, you'll learn very, very quickly."

Jerry's meticulous about his preparation and Peter hates the way he keens at each additional finger that presses into his prostate. He feels wrecked and they've barely started. "You're still so tight," Jerry groans, lips brushing Peter's ear. Jerry's hips move at a slow pace, in and out, until Peter's body is wracked with a mixture of pleasure and agony. He still feels the pain, but Jerry's forcing him to feel the pleasure, making sure his measured thrusts meet his prostate every time. His nerves are a jumbled mess.

Peter feels more than he has in months.

Peter's muscles tire easily under Jerry's attention and he quickly loosens up enough for Jerry to be able to fuck him in deep, slow strokes. He's an animal; they both know it – but he's a very attentive lover, Peter will give him that. (_Rapist_, he reminds himself, but it doesn't work when there are teeth nipping gently at his mouth and a hand on his aching cock, providing desperately needed relief.)

Peter doesn't notice at first that the kisses Jerry's pressing to his mouth are more than just kisses. He doesn't taste the blood until it's halfway down his throat and his body tenses, eyes widening. Jerry pulls away and he suddenly feels sick as he registers the smirk on the vampire's face. A red-stained tongue (recently healed, his mind whispers) leans in to lick at his lips and he sits there in shock, barely registering when Jerry's hand brings him to finish, when Jerry himself came and pulled out but didn't move away.

"Why," Peter chokes. "_Why_?"

Jerry's smirk speaks a thousand words and one clawed hand strokes down his face. "You belong to me, Peter. I'll do what I want with you. And I don't really want you _broken_, do I?"

Peter shudders and jerks away, curling up against the wall. It doesn't occur to him for a moment, sitting in stunned silence, that the pain in his legs is slowly fading, that he can't see where bone is jutting where it oughtn't be anymore. Peter stares down at himself in horror because he's _healing_.

"What have you _done_?" he cries, and launches himself forward. Jerry laughs, loud and mocking.

He lands on warm tile and looks around almost violently, chest heaving with sobs bitten back only by force of will. Jerry's clothes are gone and his are sitting next to him. He can see Jerry's smirk behind his eyelids every time he blinks.

He sits there for a long time, wrapped around himself even as his body shifts underneath his skin. He wishes, almost idly, that Jerry had messed with his mind like he had Amy's and the others. He hates being fully awake for this shift, completely coherent as his body changes without his permission, hunger growing and fangs developing. He's not fully changed, not yet, and he wonders if he'll have the strength to end this before he does.

He gets dressed, making his way back into the theater. Charley and Amy both look at him like he's insane, but the look on their faces – Amy's first, smart girl that she is, then Charley's – tells him he doesn't have to explain. Not now. Maybe not ever.

"Peter," Charley says softly, but he just lays a hand on his shoulder as he steps over his legs to sit down between them again.

"Don't, Charley."

They don't know what happened, but he knows they're aware something is terribly wrong. He adjusts himself just enough to rest his head on Amy's shoulder, looking for comfort.

He hears a voice in the back of his mind, smug and arrogant as ever. _You finish your playtime, Peter, and then you come pay me a visit, yeah? I wouldn't suggest trying to run off. You don't want to know what I'll do if I have to find you._

The hunger curls in his stomach but for different reasons and his body aches for his sire. For now, he ignores it, and pretends he can't feel the sharp claws he's digging into his leg.

_You can't outrun me for long, Peter. You knew that._

Yeah, he agrees silently. He knows.

He also knows, deep down, that he won't be able to run any more than he'll be able to pull a trigger.


End file.
